ephemeral
by London Lorilie
Summary: A short story from Arthur's POV. Arthur OFC HET


This is a short story from Arthur point of view. I took liberty with his lover so she's an original. 

title- ephemeral author- lorilie )  
pairings- arthur / ofc rating- r for some sexual content beta- rainien - she is wonderful genre- romance / angst

author notes

ethne: latin / celtic name meaning "fire."

Ephem"eral (?), a.  
1. Beginning and ending in a day; existing only, or no longer than, a day; diurnal; as, an ephemeral flower.  
2. Short-lived; existing or continuing for a short time only.

Ethne is in love with me, but to say that the feeling is mutual doesn't to begin to describe anything. I'm completely irrational about her. She and I are a scandal.

There is an art to perfecting the privilege of being a lover. I am nowhere close to achieving it, and I doubt I'll be getting there anytime soon. My head is it still swimming and I can hardly think. I can't speak. As I said, I am absolutely unreasonable about her. I don't love her. Because to try and find a word to describe my feelings is pointless. No, it goes far beyond any label that I can give.

I've told her that I love her twice.

I've been her lover for four years, and her husband for three.

I feel like a child, reeling from his first kiss. No, wait. Forget that. A boy never had the thoughts that I have. I know her body better than I know my own, and still I think of her constantly. If my mind wanders but a little it finds her. I gave up trying to control it long ago.

I watch her coming to me. I'm sure she's confused as to why I called her in the middle of the day. She was spending the day with her sisters. They are only visiting the city. I'm a bastard and I can't help myself. I want her time, and her attention.

Her complete undivided attention.

God it hurts. She'll never be able to love me in the same way. I love her the only way I can; a man loving a woman. My sweet Ethne is nothing more than a child of the earth, the unexpected product of the union between an royal woman and a little known man. She's daughter of the half-moon, and in the blink an eye I'll be laid in the ground. She will have to live without me. It will break her heart.

I do not fear my own death, but the thought of Lancelot giving her the news that her husband was slain in battle is more than I can bear to imagine. She told me once that she would fade without me. I believe her.

We both know that I am a warrior and a king. History screams that my life is fated to be short. Contentment is all I was hoping for, and find her was something I never expected. Now I live with the fear and guilt that she will bury me. 

I can feel her coming to me.

I love that she's the only person who doesn't knock at the chamber doors. My father, my mother, my knights, they all wait to be asked in. She doesn't even look twice at the guards as she passes them. She doesn't wait for an invitation. Instead she pushes past the heavy doors and enters our chamber. She's coming to me.

She had been told by every member of the council that it is custom for all to ask permission to enter the quarters of the king. She actually called it idiotic, and pushed past a elder. That is why I love her. I would have her behave no other way.

Oh god! She's breathtaking. Even with the look of worry she holds now. She's perfection, sweet and simple.

"Is something wrong?" Pure lust makes up for the embarrassment that otherwise would have taken me. I shake my head. I don't want to speak yet. Her purses her lips and steps near.

"Then why did you send for me?" I love it when she tilts her head like that. I want to touch her, feel every inch of her body until I've found it all. She sees it now, the look in my eyes. She knows it well, and her pale cheeks flush with awkwardness and realization. She's still coy with me, just as shy as the first time we kissed.

"Come here." I didn't mean to sound that demanding. My voice is not my own, as with everything else when I'm with her. I can't help but smile at the fact that she's avoiding eye contact, but she moves closer to me. I can smell her. She's like the forest at night, and it's wonderful, intoxicating... I can't think anymore.

Slowly her takes my hand, working her fingers into my grasp. With the regal grace of a queen she lifts my fingers to her mouth, her lips searing a quiet kiss. I feel the tip of her tongue on my knuckles, my eyes half shut.

I cannot decide how to touch her first. The makings of beginning such a delicate quest are too much so I draw her to me in an innocent embrace. Innocent enough. The feeling of her body pressing against mine makes me tremble. Her arms are around me, playing at the hair she finds as she hands weave around the back of my head. There is no better feeling. This has to be my utopia. If I had enough resolve I would hold her like this forever.

I don't have that much self-control. I'm not even sure how my lips came to be with hers, but they are. I kiss her meticulously. I want her to feel what I experience. Her mouth is open faintly, but I don't want it to be more than it is. I won't push my tongue into her mouth. That's not happiness for me. There are a thousand ways to ruin a perfect kiss and I've tried them all. I won't spoil this one. Instead I move to cup her face. Her hands are around my back, but I feel her moving around my neck, drawing me closer.

Curse the fool who thought up breathing.

I pull away. Now she's the one who pulls me back.

If I was ever asked to give one piece of advice it would be this: it only takes a gentle kiss to win a lover's heart. No more, no less.

It is also my belief that the first person to dawn a tunic had never seen my love. If I could have my way she would never wear a stitch of clothing. Her body is far too lovely to be covered. Although, I'm jealous enough as is it is. Perhaps that idea is a bit ahead of its time.

She's naked. So am I. How we ended up on the blankets of our bed will forever be a mystery, but I can't care. She will be the death of me. Oh but what a sweet death I will have!

Pure revelry.

I can feel her around me. I hadn't meant to take her so quickly. She's panting though and that's always a good sign. "Arthur." There it is, my name from her lips, and I want nothing more. But I do. I want her to scream my name as if she were dieing in my arms. I want her gasp and writhe under me like she's begging for her very life.

It will be only a moment before that goal is achieved. Gods bless her and those legs. She's wrapped around my waist tighter than I've ever felt before. It's only a matter of time before her hands are grasping my backside, one hand taking each cheek. She pulls me into her as she throws her head back, her hands gripping fervently. My name flowing freely from her mouth, she's calling to me loud enough that I'm sure the guards standing post in the hallway can hear her. That thought alone is enough to make me come.

I lean down into her, meaning to take her nipple into my mouth. I want to taste her. Instead my body has different idea, and I lick her breast from top to bottom. The response from this purely feral gesture is swift.

I'm on my back. The glorious picture of her straddling my hips is too much. She has that look about her now, the look that I prefer to think only I illicit from her. She looks wild and carnal, I have no control. All I can do now is thrust wantonly upward until she sees fit to bring me release. Fortunately it comes quickly.

"I love you." It's little more than a whisper, I can watch her lips move and her forehead is pressed to mine. She's shaking as I feel my own relief.

"Say it again," I want to hear more. She lays her body over mine. She's still panting.

"I love you." Her words are faint, as she cups the side of my face with her hand. Her eyes are wide and probing me for an answer. She is terrified "Will you not say it to me?"

Sadness. Sadness in those eyes. The hurt I cause her is unthinkable. I deserve to be hung.

My heart is breaking. My arms can never bring her close enough. I'm going to cry. I won't, not now. Instead I'll hold her, trying to partake in the post lovemaking bliss she's feeling. There is none of that for me. My heart is torn. My chest is heaving and now she is silent, those wondrous gasps of passion gone from her body. I can feel her fingers in my hair, and I can no longer control the tears that slip down my face. Our bodies are still joined. I pull her as tight and bury my face into the sweet skin of her shoulder.

"Is it that you do not love me? Why is it that you weep?"

I'm horrified. Is that what she thinks of me? My hands are in her hair, on her hips, running over he cheeks, her lips, her buttocks. My fingers are at the back of her neck, the hollow of her shoulders.

"It is so much more than love." My whisper is weak, and she knows now. She knows of my feelings.

And then I will be gone. I would give all this up just to be with her, to love by her side until old age consumes us both. All she would have to do is ask…and she never would.

I can not think of such things now. More important issues demand my attention. There is time to appreciate; I will not forsake that. I will live until my reason has withered.

But now…now I will live. Now I will love. 


End file.
